All That and A Bag of Chips
by Ke Roth
Summary: Jean-Luc and Beverly travel to LaBarre for the first holiday after the destruction of the Enterprise D and the deaths of Rene and Robert
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"You know you don't have to do this."

Beverly Crusher looked up from where she was seated on her bed, placing the last of her personal items in her carryall.

Closing it with a decisive snap, she stood and turned to face her friend – and finding the grief of his recent loss still clouding his otherwise handsome face.

"Neither do you," she reminded Jean-Luc Picard gently.

He sighed then shook his head. "I wish I could agree with you, Beverly – but I owe it to Marie to get these matters resolved. I should have done it as soon as we reached Earth…" he began only to let the rest of the sentence fade into silence.

On the long trip home from Veridian III, where the Enterprise D had met its fate, he had been in near-constant contact with his sister-in-law, at first sharing their mutual grief over the deaths his brother and nephew, Robert and René, then slowly moving to matters of short-term importance – then to ones that would have a lasting effect on them both. He had planned to join her in France as soon as they had returned to Earth – but Starfleet had other plans, including an exhaustive and exhausting court martial over the loss of the flagship of the Federation. After too many grueling weeks, that matter had finally been resolved only to be supplanted by the demands of the Admiralty that he oversee the completion of the Enterprise E at the Utopia Planitia shipyards.

The work was far from done, but Starfleet had finally granted him a brief leave: officially because he had was entitled to the bereavement leave, but more because of the New Year's holiday slowdown at the shipyards – and when the workers returned with the change of year, their demands on his time would dramatically escalate as the ship neared completion. Picard knew full well that if he didn't take them time now, there was every chance he might not be back to Earth for months – or years.

Still, to try to resolve these matters that still stabbed so close to his heart was hard enough – to resolve them during the traditional Earth holidays was even more difficult.

"Nonetheless, Beverly," he continued, "it's hardly the way to spend one's Christmas and New Year's, talking with lawyers and accountants," he reminded her.

To his relief, she simply smiled. "I'm not going to be the one dealing with the lawyers, Jean-Luc; that's for you to do. I'm just going along for moral support."

"Nonetheless…"

"Nonetheless," she went on, "I've never been one to really celebrate Christmas – and to be honest, I really don't want to go to Will's New Year's Eve party."

Picard smiled. "Don't tell him – but neither do I. I appreciate what he's trying to do for crew morale – but given my choice, I'd rather have spent it in my quarters. But rank hath its obligations," he said with a sigh.

"Ah hah," she said. "So that's why you claimed you had a headache after the first hour last year: your obligations were fulfilled and therefore you could sneak out."

"I didn't 'sneak'," he said disdainfully. "I informed Will I was leaving – and, if memory serves, I was accompanied by my Chief Medical Officer," he pointed out.

"Who was concerned about her captain's health," she replied.

"And when she couldn't find a cause for his headache, sacrificed the remainder of her evening off to stay with him, just in case there should be a development in his case," he reminded her. "At least this year we both have a legitimate excuse to avoid the festivities. It's purely coincidental that we don't return to the ship until January third," he concluded dryly.

They both laughed then Beverly reached for the strap of the carryall – only to have Jean-Luc gallantly take it from her. "Let me," he said, then slid the strap onto his shoulder – then offered his free arm to her.

A little surprised by the overt expression of affection from the normally reserved man, she accepted it before letting him guide her into the corridor.

"You've had the supplies beamed down to the house?" she asked.

Picard nodded. "Our clothes, supplies, food for several days – you'll have to tolerate my cooking, I'm afraid: Robert didn't believe in replicators…"

"So you've said," she replied. "However, I can do my share of the cooking. I used to be a fairly good cook when Jack and I were newlyweds – though after Wesley came along, I got out of the habit."

He nodded, remembering several of the meals he had shared with the young couple: Beverly had, indeed, been a good cook – but the meals had always lay heavy in his stomach. It hadn't been her cooking, of course, but his own unexpressed feelings for his hostess that had tainted his appreciation of those meals.

But that had been years ago, he reminded himself; now Beverly knew how he felt about her – and though they had tacitly agreed not to move forward with their romantic feelings, they had continued their friendship. Now, he thought to himself with a smile, if there's a lump in my stomach after the meal, it _will_ be from her cooking.

Or mine, he added.

"So what's on the agenda?" she asked.

"We're transporting to Paris first. I have a meeting this afternoon with my lawyer… What?" he asked as he felt a soft chuckle roll through her body.

"I'm sorry – but it's just odd to think of the inestimable Jean-Luc Picard as having a lawyer," Beverly said.

"A necessary evil, even in our time," he said with a sigh. "I can't use our family lawyer, as she represents Marie, so I've secured counsel from a firm in Paris. He'll represent me while I'm away from Earth in matters regarding the transfer of the estate."

"Transfer of the estate?" she countered, surprised.

He stopped in mid-step and turned to face her. "She… Marie can't go back there. Legally, the estate and the vineyards are hers, of course – Robert's will left them to her, but…"

Beverly reached a hand to his face, her long fingers gently stroking the angle of his jaw. "I understand," she said softly, commiserating both with her friend and with the widow of his brother. "She can't go back there," she said knowingly.

He shook his head. "No. I'll be honest, I'm not looking forward to it either. Growing up there was difficult enough – but going back now…"

Going back, Beverly thought, and coming face to face with the reality that he was going to be the last Picard to occupy the house, that his family line ended – with him.

He drew a long breath, then turned away and started walking down the hall once more, Beverly's hand still tightly wrapped around his arm.

"So Marie has initiated the transfer of the estate to me; in return, I'll arrange for the vineyard to continue its operations, and for all the profits to be settled on Marie in exchange. It should provide for her quite well. I'll retain the house for my use when I'm on Earth, but my lawyer will be authorized to act on my behalf should the opportunity to sell the land arise – or to act as executor of the estate if something should happen to me," he added grimly.

He glanced at Beverly, half expecting her to chide him for his maudlin attitude, but found the woman deep in thought instead.

"I should consider something along the same lines," she mused. "Not that I have an estate to leave to Wesley – but there are some personal things that I want him to get. Nana's journals…"

Picard raised a brow in astonishment. "Her journals?"

Beverly glanced at the man then chuckled. "Not all of her journals were filled with erotica, Jean-Luc. There were quite a few that were about Arveda, then when we moved to Caldos." She thought for a moment, then continued, "You know, there was a lot in those journals that I didn't remember."

"Such as?" he asked.

"Nothing significant. What our lives were like. Day to day events. My parents. My brother," she added.

"I'm sorry," he said gently.

She smiled, though her hand tightening on his arm bespoke a degree of forced bravery. "Don't be. In a way, it was… enlightening, having a chance to relive those days that I had forgotten. I'm grateful that the journals survived the crash of the Enterprise; now I'd like to make sure that Wesley gets the chance to see them – if he ever gets back to Earth," she added.

"He will," he assured her, "one day."

He stopped as they approached the transporter room – and she released his arm. There was, she knew, a time and a place for that type of intimacy – but not here or now: not in front of a junior officer.

Still, he retained possession of her bag, as the doors slid open; handing it off to the transporter officer, he gave instructions for it to be sent to the house in LaBarre, then mounted the transporter platform, Beverly taking the position next to him.

He glanced at her, confirming her readiness – then nodded to the officer. "Beam us down, Lieutenant," he ordered.

An hour later, Beverly wished she had thought to bring Nana's journals with her; she had been pointedly escorted out of the office where the lawyer was meeting with Jean-Luc, even though she did not understand more than one word in a hundred as the two conversed in their native tongue, and left to sit on her own in the antechamber.

It had taken her only a few minutes to discover that the hundreds of law books that filled the dark wood room were written in Latin or French – neither of which she could translate readily – and knowing that even if she could read them, law books would hardly make for light reading. The room's narrow windows let in only a glimpse of light on this gray and gloomy afternoon, and what little view they offered was of nothing more than a narrow alley. Bored beyond belief, she settled back in the over-stuffed chair and closed her eyes.

This was not, she thought emphatically, how she had wanted to spend her holiday – not, she added quickly, that she really cared about holidays. Thinking about Nana's journals, she knew that her parents had tried to provide her – and later, her younger brother – with a celebration that carried on some of the traditions of their original Earth culture – but by the time she was old enough to form solid memories, they had moved to Arveda.

In the first year, they had been so busy establishing the colony that the thought of celebrating Earth holidays had fallen by the wayside – especially as so few of the colonists had come from Earth, and fewer yet practiced the old religions. By the second year… By the second year, she thought, almost all of the original colonists were dead, lost in the disaster, including Beverly's parents and her baby brother. Celebrations of any type were impossible with the painfully limited supplies – but even if there had been food or water in ample supply, the thought of celebrating with so many friends, family and neighbors dead was heresy.

Even after she and Nana had moved to Caldos, they didn't bother to resume the old habits, though decorum required that Nana, as one of the town's healers, attend the festivities. Then, as now, Beverly had done her best to beg off, joining in only as long as required before beating a hasty retreat back to the cottage and burying herself in her books.

It had been a defense that had worked equally well when she entered medical school; claiming the need to study kept her from being asked to holiday parties more than a few times – and when she had to attend, she arrived late and departed early.

After marrying Jack though… Jack had been a firm believer in holidays. Valentine's Day, K'lerdath Ru, Federation Day, Feldor joi, Christmas and New Year's – any excuse to share a day with his girlfriend/fiancée/wife – was a good day for Jack Crusher. The melancholy of her youth disappeared with his presence in her life – and when he died, she tried to make every effort to give that same happiness to their son.

Wesley, though, had been the light of her life, wise beyond his years; even as a child, he had seemed to sense her reservation, and found other ways to share the other joys of life with his mother rather than requiring – or even requesting – that they celebrate as the other children at school did.

Not that he was above enjoying getting gifts, she thought with a smile. Jack's parents had always seen that he had gifts to open on his birthday and Christmas morning – but he seemed to truly appreciate when she would buy something for him, and present it without reason or cause. Even now she could remember the delight on his face when she had wrapped some inane gift – was it a pair of socks? – and left it on his bed for him to find and unwrap on one particularly un-noteworthy day.

But ever since he had left the Academy to pursue his education with the Traveler, she had found herself less and less interested in celebrations. Given her choice, she realized she would rather spend the time alone.

Or perhaps not completely alone, she added, remembering the last Christmas holiday on the _Enterprise_ D. She had spent the afternoon visiting with Jean-Luc, looking through his family album, talking about their years together, sharing a traditional meal of roast goose and plum pudding, then sitting together on the couch in Picard's quarters, drinking a bottle of his wine, enjoying one another's company, and sharing one kiss.

And then going back to her quarters. Alone.

I should have stayed, she told herself; I should have stayed, then – and years before.

He was, after all, a fantastic kisser, she reminded herself, thinking back on their few kisses over the years – and remembering them vividly; I wonder what he'd be like in bed? Knowing the man as she did, she suspected he'd be equally skilled in those activities – and being his physician, she knew he was amply capable.

But capable of exactly what? she mused.

With a start, she heard the door to the lawyer's office opening, and jumped to her feet guiltily.

Seeing the slightly dazed look on the CMO's face, Picard smiled. "I'm sorry that took so long. Did you fall asleep?" he asked.

"Just daydreaming," she countered, trying not to blush at the memory of the specifics of her distraction.

He noted the slight reddening of her cheeks, and decided he had probably been close to the truth with his question; turning to the lawyer, he thanked the man then reached for Beverly's hand.

Upon leaving the office, though, he released his grip – and moved the hand to the small of her back. "I do apologize for the length of that meeting, Beverly. It should have taken only an hour – but there were so many details that we had to discuss."

"I understand, Jean-Luc," she answered.

"I'm glad you understand – because it means we've missed the shuttle to LaBarre," he explained.

"What?" she exclaimed.

"Don't worry; there's another one at eight tonight – but that means we have almost four hours here. What would you say to dinner and some window shopping?" he asked. "It's going to be quite late when we get to the house, and I don't think either of us will be in the mood to figure out Marie's kitchen at that hour."

"As long as it's dinner _then_ window shopping, you have a deal," she agreed.

He chuckled. "I know this little bistro a few blocks over…"

A short time later, they were seated in a small restaurant, their dinner having been ordered – and an open bottle of wine on the table between them.

Raising his glass, Picard spoke. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"For?" she replied, puzzled.

"Giving up your holidays to come with me. Sitting in an office doing nothing for two hours. At least tomorrow you can stay at the house while I'm meeting with Marie's lawyer," he added.

Beverly smiled. "One, you know I'm no more fond of the holidays than you are – so it's not a sacrifice. Two, I'm happy to come with you; after all, you've been promising to take me to your home since you and I first met. Three, I know this is difficult for you – and I don't want you to face this alone. You are, after all, my best friend."

Friend, he repeated wordlessly. Of course: we're just friends.

She saw the disappointment on his face – but seeing the waiter drawing close with their meals, she decided this was not the time or place to further that discussion. Maybe later, she added – after the wine.

She tapped her glass against his, took a small sip of the wine, and nodded her approval. "Lovely. Not a Picard wine though," she added, glancing at the label.

"Robert never tried to overexpand the business," Picard replied. "He had a few customers here in Paris, but they were wine shops, not restaurants. He preferred to be able to do one thing – but to do it well. However, you'll have your fill of wines after we get to the house: Marie says the cellar is quite full."

"I hope my cooking will be up to the standards of Robert's wines," she replied. "However, if you're hoping that I'll stay behind whipping up a culinary masterpiece tomorrow, you'll be disappointed. I'm going into LaBarre with you – unless you don't want me to," she added hastily.

"No, no, of course not," he replied in equal haste. "I just thought you'd be bored – again."

"I wasn't planning to sit through another meeting, Jean-Luc," she informed him. "I thought I might take the opportunity to explore your hometown," she said. "You've told me enough stories about it. I'm especially looking forward to finding that boulangerie you are always talking about. And wasn't there a cheese shop?"

"Gerard's," Picard agreed. "The last that I had heard, his son had taken over the business…"

He turned his gaze downward as his voice failed, unwilling to let her see the sudden wash of tears that threatened at the thought that his family would never again pass their knowledge and skills on to another generation.

A warm hand on his interrupted his grief; looking at his companion, she smiled at him consolingly. "It's all right to grieve," she said softly. "It's more than all right. It's important - and necessary. For you and for them," she reminded him.

He hesitated a moment, collecting himself, then nodded; freeing his hand, he reached for his wine glass and raised it to her.

"To what might have been," he said quietly.

"To what might have been," she agreed.

They both drank from their glasses, but before they could continue their train of thought, the waiter appeared at the table, two plates in hand. By tacit consent turned their attention and their discussion to the food.

"This is delicious," Beverly murmured between bites of the chicken.

"I'm glad you're enjoying it," he said. "I came here for the first time when I was on leave from the Stargazer…"

"Before or after you became captain?" she asked.

"Before," he replied, talking around a bite of the sautéed potatoes that accompanied the chicken. "Captain Ruhalter was still alive – indeed, he was the one who recommended that I try this place," he added. "I didn't know it then, but he was quite the expert of French food."

"More than you?" she pressed.

"Maman was an excellent cook," he replied, "but it was country fare. Dathan Ruhalter had a far more refined palate; he taught me to appreciate fine cuisine as well as rustic food."

"He sounds like an interesting man," Beverly said.

"Oh, he was," Picard said enthusiastically, "at least to a young, over-eager and very innocent second lieutenant."

"Innocent?" she teased him.

"Naïve, then," he demurred.

"Was this before or after the incident with the Orion dancers?" she asked.

Picard blazed with embarrassment at the question. "How the devil did you find out about the dancers?" he hissed.

"Jack told me," she replied demurely. "So were they really naked?" she pressed.

He glared at her for a long moment, then managed a "Yes."

"And you?"

"Me?"

"Were you dancing on the bar with them?" she pressed.

"I most certainly was not!" he roared – then, as the other diners turned to look at the source of the sudden outburst, he quickly lowered his head – and his voice. "I was attempting to escort them off the bar – I was not dancing with them!"

"Wearing only your uniform pants?" she furthered.

"I… I…" he tried – then stopped, gave a drawn out sigh and gave up. "It was a long time ago, Beverly; I was young and stupid and naïve. Fortunately, I survived with nothing more than a dent to my pride to show for it – and I should have never told Jack about that night!"

Beverly took another sip of her wine and smiled. "I'm glad you did. Jack told me the story shortly after I met you for the first time – when I thought you were the most arrogant man I had ever met. That story went a long way toward letting me know you were just as human as any other man. Human – and charming, and handsome," she added softly.

He met her eyes – then lowered them again. How many times can she do this to me? he wondered to himself. Hint at something that wasn't, build up my hopes - only to crush them again?

But it wasn't her fault, he told himself. I let it happen, because I keep hoping that she wants something more than I know she does. But she's told me often enough, both in words and in actions, that my friendship is all she truly wants.

"I'd argue that assessment – but I learned long ago that sometimes one should just graciously accept a compliment and say thank you. So, thank you," he replied.

"You're welcome," she countered. "These mushrooms are delicious," she added as she stabbed at one of the fungi, then popped it in her mouth.

"It's the sauce," he replied. "If I remember correctly, it's based on the pan drippings from the bird, reinforced with wine and butter. While utterly delicious, it wouldn't do to eat it too often - and I'm certain that if my personal physician knew I was eating this, she would have stern words for me," he teased.

"I won't tell her if you won't," she promised.

"You know, if we finish dinner early enough, there is a patisserie not too far from here that makes a wonderful hot chocolate," he informed her.

"I don't think your doctor would approve of that, either," she reminded him.

"But what she doesn't know won't hurt her," he grinned. "In any case, it's said that the shop originally served the hot chocolate to the ladies of the street; it was said that they made it with heavy cream to keep them well nourished - and added a pinch of cayenne to the chocolate to keep them extra warm on the cold nights in Paris," he said with a flicker of a smile.

"It sounds wonderful," she said, "though after all this, I doubt I'll be able to eat another bite," she replied.

He raised a skeptical brow. "Well, if you're too full, I guess we could just skip it."

Beverly broke out laughing. "Oh, you know me too well, Jean-Luc! But maybe we can take a long walk first."

Savoring the food and one another's company, they sat at the table, talking and drinking wine until night had fallen – and the shops and homes were beginning to turn on their lights and illuminate their holiday displays.

Sated, at peace with themselves and one another - at least for the moment - the two walked, hand in hand, stopping at window displays, pointing out the holiday decorations.

"I must admit I never have truly enjoyed the Christmas holiday," he said. "When I was young, we would spend the holidays with my grandparents; they moved from LaBarre when my grandfather retired, and all of our relatives would gather there for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. I remember playing with them - they often had snow at that time of year - and we would have snow fights or go skating..."

"It sounds as though you had quite a wonderful time!" Beverly contradicted.

"I did - while we were outside and just being children. But once we came inside..."

He fell silent; after a moment, he felt Beverly's hand on his arm, urging him to continue.

"Once you were in..."

"It was... hard. Watching all of my distant cousins talking with their fathers, laughing, hugging... Robert and Father were that way as well - but even then, I knew that there was something different about my relationship with my father. He favored Robert in everything, even in his affections. Maybe it was because Robert was the eldest, the heir apparent, and I was... not."

Or maybe, he added to himself, it simply was that I was not worthy of his love.

"Maman saw it as well," he added hastily. "She tried to make up for it in my life - and the one Christmas I remember fondly was when she and I traveled into Paris - ostensibly to buy holiday gifts, but really just to take some time away from Father and Robert. We ended our day somewhat like this," he added with a genuine smile, looking at her once again, "walking through the streets, looking at the lights and the displays...It was - and is - one of my favorite memories."

"But as I grew older, the holidays became more and more awkward. After I left for the Academy, I only returned once - and then only from habit. Being at home was difficult: there was so much disapproval from Father, so much anger - after that first holiday, I never returned. Maman came to San Francisco once to celebrate with me, but I knew that it had been against Father's wishes," he added.

"I think you mother was a strong enough person to stand up to anyone - even your father - if she thought she should," Beverly offered.

"Oh, she was," he agreed, "but... even when you do what you feel is right, there are consequences. Father could be a very difficult man when he chose to; I never wanted my mother to have to deal with that, so I never asked her back to visit me. And then I shipped out - and there were no more opportunities to be at home for the holidays.

"Although she always remembered me," he added with a grin.

Beverly burst out laughing. "Oh, I saw how she 'remembered' you," she laughed. "Remember? You spent Christmas with Jack and Wesley and me - and she sent you gift to our house. The sweater? It was the blue one with the yellow stripes..."

"Don't forget the embroidered reindeer on the front," he added.

"And two sizes too big."

"And the sleeves two inches too short," he concluded, chuckling.

"And she thought that was an appropriate gift?" Beverly laughed.

"She thought it would remind her somewhat too-serious son that there were always reasons to laugh," he corrected her.

"She was a very wise woman," Beverly said.

The soldiered on, talking and laughing until they finally found the pastry shop. Securing two cups of the legendary brew as well as a bag of croissants for the morning, they continued their walk, ending at the shuttle station just ahead of the departure time.

Finding a pair of seats at the rear of the shuttle, they settled in. Seeing Beverly trying to suppress a yawn, Picard smiled, then said, "We've got an hour before we get to LaBarre. Why don't you try to get some sleep? We'll still have a long walk when we get there – and I have no idea what shape the house is in. We may yet have a long night," he added.

Not as long as I would like, he thought to himself as Beverly leaned against him, her warm softness pressing against him in ways that would, in other circumstances, be utterly delightful. Wrapping one arm around her, he held her close then pressed his lips to the top of her head; closing his eyes he wondered what it would be like to have her pressed against him all night long, sharing his bed.

It wasn't a new thought, of course: the idea of Beverly in his bed and in his arms had been the basis of most of his sexual fantasies for the last twenty-five years. Indeed, it had been the basis for most of his sexual activities for as long a time; the few women who had entered his life had been pleasant diversions – but sex without a real relationship was ultimately unsatisfying, he knew.

That didn't mean that he hadn't wanted to have a relationship with the others, he reminded himself – but they had never lived up to his fantasies of Beverly – and each time, as he realized he was comparing them to his unrealistic dreams, he also realized he was not being fair to them. At best he was doing them an injustice: at worst, he was using them.

And using Beverly, he knew equally well; as long as she was in his heart, he was protected from having to risk another relationship.

And sadly, he thought to himself, he was more than content to spend the last days of his life this way; yearning for a woman who loved him – as his friend.

As the shuttle shuddered to the ground, consciousness returned to Beverly. She stirred - only to find herself encumbered by the warm - and admittedly welcome - arm of Jean-Luc, sleeping on the seat beside her.

Smiling, she freed one arm and poked him gently. "Jean-Luc," she said softly.

He started, opened his eyes, blinked - and gave a sheepish smile. "I fell asleep," he said, his voice rough.

"I noticed," she answered then pulled herself free of his embrace and hastily began to straighten her disarrayed clothes.

Hearing her soft laugh, Picard, who was similarly rearranging his rumpled clothes, looked at her.

She looked back and blushed. "I feel like I'm a teenager again - having to straighten myself before Nana caught me."

He frowned. "Indeed," he grumbled.

She frowned right back at him. "Indeed. Don't tell me you never had a date that didn't end with some rumpled clothes."

"Not when I was a teenager," he replied.

She glared at him. "I didn't mean I was having sex!" she snapped back. "I meant... Didn't you ever... you know... engage in a little innocent - well, relatively innocent - teenage... friskiness?" she asked.

He met her gaze, and with his most imperious tone, replied, "I'll have you know I was never 'frisky', Doctor."

Beverly gaped - then slowly let her mouth close as a smile began to cross Picard's face; she swatted him lightly on the arm. "You're terrible," she said, although the smile on her face belied her accusation.

"Turnabout is fair play, my dear doctor. Just consider it a very small repayment for all the times you've teased me," he countered as he reached for his coat. Standing, he pulled it on then helped Beverly with hers as the shuttle attendant approached them.

After exchanging a few words of courtesy with the young man, Picard led his companion off the shuttle and into the now dark and deserted transportation station.

"I hope you don't mind a walk," he said. "I usually do so when I'm coming home - but I was hoping that there might be a local ride available. Apparently, however, everyone has gone home for the night."

"You said to dress for the walk," she reminded him, "although if had known we were going to do this at night, I would have found a warmer coat," she added, pulling the neck of her coat closer.

Seeing her shiver, Picard wished he had thought to wear a scarf so that he could offer it to her; instead, he had nothing to offer her but his hand.

She took it and the two left the small station.

The clouds that had gloomed the skies of Paris were absent from the village; as they walked, Beverly could see why Jean-Luc had grown up yearning to reach the skies. Here, as they had been on Arveda and on Caldos, the skies were bright with their brilliance, taunting all who saw them with their power and glory.

"So distant," Picard murmured, as if hearing her thoughts. "I can imagine early man, seeing the stars every night, wondering if there was a hill somewhere, high enough so that they could finally touch those lights - but never being able to reach them.

"Maybe that was what drove early man on," he said, "the stars teasing us, trying to encourage us to go beyond the limits we thought we had, to try to exceed those boundaries that we told ourselves existed - and that if... _when_... we finally tried hard enough, we could, one day, leave this planet and touch them."

"You're a romantic," she said softly.

"But of course," he replied. "I am French, after all."

"Then how come you never got 'frisky'?" she countered.

He glanced at her quickly then broke out laughing. "Touché," he answered. They walked in silence for a moment, then he continued, "The truth is that I was somewhat... isolated growing up. Not sheltered," he amended quickly. "Maman always encouraged me to socialize, to get out and make friends, but most of the boys of my age seemed more interested in sports than in studying. I developed a few close friendships that I still maintain - but for the most part, I was left on my own."

"You're dodging the question, Jean-Luc," she answered. "That explains why you didn't have a lot of male friends - but what about girls? Don't tell me you were shy," she teased.

He stopped abruptly, turning to dace her. "Please, just stop," he said, his voice hard with pain. "I'm fully aware of my failings in personal relationships, Beverly. I don't need you to remind me about it – especially when you were the cause of so much of it."

She stared at him, too stunned, too hurt, to respond. Finally she managed a very weak, "I'm sorry… I wasn't…"

"I'm sorry as well," he replied, his anger unconcealed. "I think that your accompanying me on this trip was unwise. Perhaps you should return to the ship," he concluded.

Beverly stared a moment longer, then nodded numbly. "I think I should as well," she said.

They watched each other a moment longer, then Picard said, "Well?"

" 'Well' what?" she replied.

"Aren't you going to contact the ship to beam you up?"

"I left my badge on the ship," she reminded him. "Why don't _you_ call them?"

Picard sighed. "Mine is on the ship as well," he said. "The lawyer asked me not to wear it to the meeting."

They stared at one another a moment longer. "Then I'll call from the transportation station," she said, glancing down the dark and deserted road.

"They're closed," he reminded her.

"Then I'll get a room in town and contact them in the morning," she said, turning away from him.

"There aren't any inns in LaBarre," he informed her. "We'll call from the house – we're almost there," he added.

She nodded, still too dazed from his verbal assault to react.

Silently he turned back in the direction they had been heading and walked on without looking back, seemingly unconcerned if she followed him or not.

She followed, oblivious to everything around her, until they came upon a row of thin trees that obscured the property behind them. After a brief distance, the dark-shrouded trees gave way to a low stone hedge that finally opened onto a gate.

He turned, taking the path that led from the road to the house, stopping only when he reached the front door. Entering a sequence on the door lock, he gave the heavy wood door a push – then finally looked back at his stricken companion.

"Come in," he said, his anger somewhat ameliorated by the look of pain on her face. "Get warm while I contact the ship," he said, gesturing for her to enter the house – then turned and entered the building.

Motionless, she watched the door for a moment, then slowly entered behind him.

It took her a moment to realize that the house was clad in darkness – to realize that the lights that should have automatically turned on at their entry had not done so – and then to realize that Jean-Luc was muttering curses under his breath.

The muttering grew to a sharp cry as he walked into an unseen piece of furniture; grabbing his lower leg, he let loose with an oath, then cautiously set his foot down, supporting his weight on the table he had encountered – and espying a padd left on the table's top.

Taking it, he turned it on – and cursed again. "The power will be restored tomorrow," he informed her. "Apparently the workers had a holiday party this evening so they couldn't do the work today! They did fill the wood box, however – so we can build ourselves a fire!" he added angrily.

He slapped the padd down on the table, turned to face her, and softened his expression. For all his disappointment in this trip – in his life, in everything! - this turn of events was not her fault. "I'm sorry," he said. "It looks as though you're stuck here until morning." He glanced at the small pile of bags piled in the front hall that represented their personal luggage. "Which bag is yours?" he asked.

She pointed at one, which he then handed to her. "The bedrooms are upstairs," he informed her, pointing at the outline of the staircase on the opposite of the entryway.

"Which room is yours?" she asked.

"I'll stay down here," he replied, not answering her. "I want to get a fire going so we have some heat," he added by way of an explanation.

Still stinging from his rebuke, Beverly simply nodded. Taking the carryall and the suitcase, she made her way to the stairs and the bedrooms.

She opted for the one closest to the stairs. All the faster to make my escape tomorrow, she told herself – then angrily brushed a tear from her face.

Damn him! Damn him! How dare he? I had every right to tell him I didn't want to pursue a relationship! How dare he blame me for every problem he has had with women! I didn't tell him to fall in love with me!

Which didn't mean it wasn't her fault – at least in part – she reminded herself. I had the right to tell him I didn't want a relationship, she repeated – but I didn't say that. I danced around it, telling him that _maybe_ we should be afraid. If I had been honest, I would have said no.

Or yes, she admitted.

Damn him, damn him… and damn me, she added, falling on the bed, burying her face in the pillow, and beginning to cry.

Starting a fire in the great fireplace was a simple enough task; Picard had done it since he was old enough to pile up the tinder, kindling and logs – but that had been some time ago, he realized as thick black smoke began to rush into the room.

Coughing hard as the vapors stung at his throat, he stuck his hand into the chimney, pulling at the long-stuck damper handle until it finally conceded the point and opened with a gush of cold air, dessicated birds' nests and soot. The smoke however, seemed unaware of the debris and began to gush up the chimney.

The coughing seemed less inclined to give up the battle as easily; he gasped and wheezed for several minutes, his throat burning as he tried to clear the smoke from his lungs. Finally, he made his way to the old breakfront that had once housed Robert's brandies. Finding one, he poured a shot into a glass, drank it down – and sighed as the stinging faded, replaced with a pleasant warmth as the liquor hit his stomach.

Pouring a second drink, he capped the bottle, then took the drink to the couch that stood before the fireplace and settled in. He watched the flames for a time, slowly savoring the brandy.

It wasn't Beverly's fault, he reminded himself. She was entitled to say she didn't love him… but she never had, he reminded himself. If she had, it would have been easier; knowing there was no hope, he might have been able to move on. But she hadn't – and hope had lingered, poisoning him against everything that could have been in the undying dream of something that might never be.

My fault, he told himself. I should have just asked her, "Yes or no?"

But I didn't – and here we both are.

Damn her, damn her – and damn me.

He glanced at the glass which had emptied itself as he had studied the fire, then rose, returning to the breakfront once more. The glass refilled, he settled in at the fire once more.

After a time, he reached for the old afghan that used to lie on the back of the couch, pulling it over himself as the day's efforts and sorrows finally took their toll.

Another damned Christmas, was the final thought that crossed his mind as sleep came upon him.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Beverly stirred as the first shafts of light penetrated the window and slowly opened her dry and scratchy eyes.

I must look like hell, she thought; sleeping in my clothes, my eyes red from crying… Not that it would make a difference to Jean-Luc, she thought. Not anymore.

Anxious as she was for this day to get started and for this disaster to end – My God, another Christmas to forget! she mused – she decided that a few moment spent resting on the bed, regaining her composure, would not be misspent.

Staring at the room around her, she decided that this room must have been Jean-Luc's at one point: though the floral comforter bespoke Marie's touch, a small display of ships in bottles had undoubtedly been Jean-Luc's creations from his childhood. Beverly didn't know much about Marie, but what she did know had suggested that the woman might have deferred to her husband's wishes in some things – but not in discarding the beloved possessions of the other Picard child. The ships, somewhat dusty after six months unattended, were still proudly displayed.

Probably the chest beneath the window that was revealing the French countryside to her also contained some of his childhood possessions, she added, a portion of her tempted to search out the contents.

A saner, sadder, part of her quickly cautioned against that action; after last night, she thought, she knew there was no place for her in Jean-Luc's life.

Or his ship, she added.

Maybe placing a call to Starfleet Command was what she needed to do, she admitted. Starfleet Medical had been asking her to take on a project while the _Enterprise_ was still in dock; she had enough contacts in high places and was owed enough favors that she should be able to parley that project into a full time position – and leave the _Enterprise_ and her captain once and for all.

I should move on, she told herself.

She drew a deep breath, finally ready to face, at last, the day – and felt the bed move.

Turning cautiously, she was shocked to find herself face to face – well, face to sleeping visage – with Jean-Luc.

"What the hell?" she shouted, pulling the blankets around her, despite the fact she was fully dressed and atop the bed's covers – and promptly revealing the fact that Picard was wearing nothing except a pair of briefs.

Her sudden shout and the gust of cold air jolted the sleeping man out of his slumber – but the man who opened his eyes was anything but the typically over-alert Starfleet captain.

He looked at Beverly unrecognizingly – then suddenly realized the situation – and his condition.

Hastily pulling the covers back from her, he snapped, "What the devil are you doing in my room – in my bed?"

"Your bed? You told me to take any room! You told me you were going to sleep downstairs!" she snapped back.

He stared at her for a moment, utterly confused – then closed his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said. "I remember falling asleep in front of the fire… At some point the fire went out, and I got cold… I must have just gone to bed out of habit," he explained, adding with a rueful grin, "This _was_ my room, you know. If anyone is trespassing, it's you."

They stared at each other for a moment – then they both began to laugh.

Finally, Beverly shook her head. "I'm going to go wash and change clothes. While I'm out, you can get dressed and then I'll start back to town," she said, rising from the bed. "The transportation center should be open…"

"Beverly…" he began, reaching for her hand before she could move too far away.

"Jean-Luc," she said, looking at his hand - then meeting his gaze.

"About last night," he began, but she interrupted with a shake of her head.

"No," she said, "you were right. I wasn't fair to you; you asked for something – but I never said yes…"

"You were right, though," he interrupted. "I love you – but I can't require that you love me back. You had every right to say 'no'."

"But I didn't say 'no', Jean-Luc" Beverly said. "I didn't say anything! I just left you hanging there – for the last three years. If anyone is owed an apology, it's you – from me. I'm sorry, Jean-Luc. I am so very, very sorry," he said, a tear slipping from her eye, trailing down her cheek.

"Beverly," he whispered, raising a hand to her face, brushing the tear away with his thumb.

She raised her eyes to his - and he lowered his lips to hers.

The kiss deepened, and Jean-Luc's hand moved from holding the blanket around his midriff to holding Beverly. A moment later his other hand joined the first, pulling her close – then he felt her hands reach around him, pulling him to her, pulling him down to the bed.

He slowly moved his hand higher, seeking out the lush mound of her breast – and earning a soft moan of pleasure for his efforts – and the realization that her hand was moving lower, sliding beneath the folds of the blanket. After a moment, it reached his thigh then began to move higher.

He shivered, as much from her touch as from the cold of the unheated room; despite his anticipation, he pulled away from her, freed the blanket from underneath him and gallantly pulled it over them both.

Beverly laughed at the gesture then pulled him close once more, tugging the blanket over both of their heads as she did so.

They had just resumed the kiss when a loud noise from the ground floor interrupted their tryst.

Flipping the blankets back from their heads, Picard listened for a moment, then glanced at Beverly.

"I heard it too," she agreed.

"I'd better check it out," he said. Rising from the bed, he pulled the blanket around him once again, then headed out of the room and down the stairs.

Reaching the ground floor, he looked about, trying to determine the source of the noise when it suddenly repeated itself.

The back door, he realized.

Opening it, he was greeted by an unfamiliar face.

With an apology, the middle-aged man introduced himself and the others with him as being the hired workers who were there to finish re-establishing the power to the house. With a nod, Picard stepped back to let them in – only to hear a terrifying shriek – and a moment later watched as Beverly raced down the stairs, clad only in a towel.

"There's no hot water!" she announced - then stared dumbly at the four strangers who were staring at her in astonishment – and undisguised appreciation.

She gaped back, hastily moving behind the blanket-draped Picard – and the workers smiled knowingly to themselves, murmured something to Picard and hastily left the room.

"What did they say?" she asked as the door shut behind them.

"That they'd be as quick as possible," he translated, turning to look at her in bemusement.

She glanced at the towel she had wrapped around herself, tightened and explained. "I thought I would take a quick shower – but I forgot that no power also meant no hot water."

"A shower?" he said, smiling.

She reddened. "I looked like hell," she said, "and smelled almost as bad."

"I didn't notice," he replied.

"But I did. I've thought about… _this_ – but never once included the possibility of my smelling like a Ferengi's armpit," she joked.

He raised a brow. "You thought about this?" he pressed, his voice rough and low.

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. "Fantasized," she admitted.

"About us."

She nodded. "Yes."

"Together."

She nodded.

He stepped closer, pulling the blanket around them both. "Tell me. Tell me what you fantasized," he ordered.

She smiled as she met his needful gaze. "There were quite a few," she said. "Do you want to hear them all?"

He nodded slowly, intently.

"None of them involved you wearing a flower-covered comforter," she said, glancing pointedly at his attire.

He stared at her – then began to chuckle.

"I would rather hope they didn't," he replied, then loosened his hold on her, guiding her toward the stairs. "Perhaps we can dispense with attire altogether…"

As they entered the room, he released her, dropped his blanket, then reached for the front of her towel. It fell to the ground and he stared at her.

She stared back, then reached for the top of his briefs, carefully guiding them over his erection and down to the floor, settling back on her haunches to appreciate the view – then looked up at him.

"They know what causes that now," she said.

He raised a brow in surprise at the remark, then replied, "I presume there is also a cure?"

"A palliative, yes, but no cure. I'm afraid that the condition may return despite repeated treatments," she answered soberly.

"You would administer those treatments?"

"As your personal physician, I would consider it my duty to tend to your care myself," she replied.

"And these… treatments? What do they involve?"

"Fortunately, there are any number of approaches… may I show you?" she whispered.

He nodded; taking her hand, he led her to the bed, watched her lie down, then took a place beside her.

Wrapping on arm around her narrow waist, he pulled her close, resuming the kiss that had been interrupted a few minutes before – only to feel her shiver against him.

Ego would have had him believe it was the closeness of his body; his more rational mind reminded him that the house was still unheated, and that room was damned cold, and that she was soaking wet from her attenuated – and icy - shower.

Breaking the kiss, he moved off the bed, retrieved the blanket, then leapt heroically onto the mattress, the blanket flapping behind him.

The bed, however, had not been used in some time; old, and unfamiliar with sudden shifts in weight, the frame suddenly snapped, sending Beverly rolling onto the floor as Picard tumbled onto the collapsed frame.

"Damn it!" he shouted, doubling over as pain shot through his body.

"Jean-Luc!" Beverly cried out, scrambling over the broken frame to his side. "Are you all right?"

"Yes! I just…" He hesitated, embarrassed at the idea of having to tell her on which part of his body he had landed – but the locations of his hands, cupped protectively over himself, made the answer evident.

Horrified, Beverly pried his hands free, taking his injured - and rapidly softening - member into her own soft hands, inspecting it carefully.

"Did you land on it?" she asked.

"No, I just…hit it," he said.

She pressed the tissue carefully, trying to assess any injury – then looked up. "I don't think there's any serious damage, but I have a scanner in my bag…"

"That won't be necessary," he replied, the pain fading to simply a matter of shock and having fallen on such a delicate part of his body. "I'm sure I'll be fine," he insisted.

"Good," she replied, adding coyly, her fingers delicately running along his length, "because I had some ideas about other, less dramatic ways of addressing your… condition."

Despite the shock of the fall, he found himself growing hard once again under her tender ministrations. "Oh?" he asked.

Beverly smiled, then leading him by the part she already held, guided him back to the mattress, now safely ensconced on the floor. "At least we know the bed won't collapse again," she laughed.

He started to take a place beside her, then stopped, grabbed the blanket, pulled it over them both, and finally resumed the kiss they had begun twice before.

"Yes," she murmured as his hands explored her body. "Yes… There… No, not so hard," she quickly added, then gave another sigh of pleasure.

"Oh, yes," he agreed – then gasped. "Gently!" he begged. "Gently!"

"Sorry!"

"It's all right," he said, then added as he caressed her intimately, "You feel wonderful."

"It would feel better if you were inside me," she replied.

"Already?" he asked, disappointed.

"It's been a long time, Jean-Luc," she told him.

"Yes, of course," he agreed, sliding one leg then the other between hers, parting them, then shifting his weight to her hips. Reaching to caress her once more, he tried to guide himself to the opening.

"A little more to the left," she panted. "No. It's…"

He raised himself up, looking beneath the blanket so he could reach the target of his desire – then certain he was correctly positioned, smiled at her.

"I've been thinking about this for thirty years," he admitted, then moved closer to her.

Beverly drew in a deep breath.

The door to the room burst open. "Monsieur Picard!" the workman announced – then stopped as he realized what he had interrupted.

"Damn it!" Picard shouted as he glared at the foreman. "Get out!"

"Pardonez moi!" the man gasped, horrified, hastily backing out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Infuriated, Picard looked down at his lover – well, his almost-lover – and was astounded to see her break into a smile and begin laughing.

"Jean-Luc, let's give it up for now," she told him, rolling out from beneath him. "This just wasn't meant to be – at least not now. You've got to go find out what's up with the workers, I'm need to get washed, you've got an appointment with the lawyer in two hours – and if we're going to do this properly, I don't want to be rushed."

"Neither do I," he agreed.

"After all, we did wait thirty years – a few more hours won't kill us."

"That's easy for you to say," he muttered, still painfully aware of his unassuaged arousal.

"No, it's not," she countered sharply. "I'm as frustrated as you are – you just can't see it. But I assure you – I want this. But I want it when we can both appreciate it and enjoy it."

She was right, of course – but that did nothing to address his now pressing needs.

"Of course," she added slyly, "I might be able to help you."

He raised a brow.

"Come with me," she said, rising from the bed, reaching for his hand.

He stood up, following as she led him toward the small bathroom that adjoined the bedroom.

Turning on the shower, it began to spray water into the enclosure and she stepped in.

"Beverly, there's no hot water yet," he protested.

"I assure you," she murmured, as she pulled him in behind her, "you're not going to care."

Protecting him against the brunt of the cold water by pressing her body against his, she slowly lowered herself until she was kneeling before him, then slowly drew him into her mouth.

The biting cold water of the shower, the delicious heat of her mouth… Dear God, he groaned silently. He ran his fingers through her hair, slowly setting his own pace as she licked and kissed and tasted his length…

With a sudden shriek, they both suddenly jerked free of one another, Picard slamming himself against the far wall of the enclosure while Beverly pushed the door open and fell onto the floor. Picard followed her a moment later, falling onto the ground beside her, staring into the shower stall as plumes of steam billowed out.

"They've re-engaged the water heater," Beverly said numbly.

"Indeed," he agreed – then began to laugh.

"Jean-Luc?"

"Beverly…" he began, then shook his head. "Sometimes Beverly, sometimes you just have to yield to the inevitable." He looked at her, leaned close and kissed her gently, but not passionately, then moved to his feet.

Sans arousal, Beverly realized a moment as she watched him stand. Raising her hand to him, he helped her to her feet, nodding at the shower. "Take advantage of the water," he said. "I'll go see what the status of the repairs is. Can I get you some coffee while I'm in the kitchen?" he added.

She nodded numbly, then moved toward the shower, turned down the temperature and stepped back in.

All right, she told herself, the first time with a lover – any lover – was rarely _that_ great, but she had never had a first time turn into the unmitigated disaster that today had been.

Maybe I should just go back to the ship, she thought.

A half hour – and two cups of coffee later – her mood had lightened somewhat, especially as she realize that Jean-Luc was anything but upset. If anything, the debacles had left him… amused.

He smiled. He laughed.

And as they left the house shortly thereafter, his arm wrapped around her waist, holding her closely.

Intimately.

And she realized that she wanted that intimacy.

I was a fool, she thought.

Never again.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Her rusty French aside, Beverly had managed to more than fill the four hours that Jean-Luc had needed with Marie's lawyer as the two worked out a transfer of the property to his name while ensuring that Marie would always be cared for financially. While he had discussed his sister-in-law's present and future needs, Beverly had found the cheese shop and the bakery and made arrangements – mostly through gestures – to have fresh food delivered to the house later that day, after having been reminded that there would be no deliveries for the next two days as the small town shut down for the Christmas holiday.

Indeed, they hadn't seemed overly interested in delivering them today, either – until she gave them the name of the intended location. Jean-Luc's name, it seemed, carried a lot of weight in his hometown.

_Hometown boy makes good,_ she chuckled to herself as she made her way back toward the lawyer's office – then stopped as something caught her eye.

Beverly stared for a long moment, then cautiously entered the small store. A conversation of dubious French and universally understood hand signs followed – and with a self-satisfied smile, she left the store and headed for the office once more.

A bell attached to the door jamb rang as she entered; glancing from the adjoining room, Picard smiled at her.

"We're almost through, Beverly," he informed her. "A few more minutes…"

"Take all the time you need, Jean-Luc," she said, reminding herself that this was the reason for their visit.

Turning to look out the window, she pulled off the knitted cap that she had borrowed and gave her head a shake, letting her red hair drift back into soft curls.

"Have I ever told you how sensuous that is?" a voice, low and deep and at her side, said softly.

Startled, she turned to face him, then smiled. "My hat?" she teased.

"Your hair," he countered. "The way you toss it, the way it falls on your shoulders."

"Ah. Jealous?" she asked.

"Undoubtedly," he agreed, then moved closer to her, his arms reaching to pull her close…

The sound of a drawer closing with a decisively _thud_ startled the two; pulling back, Picard looked sheepishly at the door to the adjoining room, through which Marie's lawyer was just exiting. Hastily, he released Beverly, stepping away from her side and turned toward the lawyer once more.

The two spoke for another moment, then the lawyer handed Picard a padd, recited what Beverly presumed were instructions then smiled politely at Beverly.

She smiled back, then watched the two shake hands. Taking his coat from the back of one of the chairs, Picard pulled it on even as he murmured a farewell to the woman. Wrapping one arm around Beverly's waist, he guided her to the door and into the cold winter's air.

"You're in a hurry," she teased.

"I shouldn't be. From what Mme. Jasone said, the workers will still be at the house when we return. They may have been slow to get started, but they will complete the task today – even if it means they are there until well into the night," he informed her, somewhat glumly.

"I take it then that you're not interested in a repeat performance of this morning's events," she asked.

"Of some portions, yes!" he answered. "But I'd prefer that we not have any spectators," he added, then glanced about the street to see if anyone was looking, then gave her a small kiss on the cheek.

"You're going to have to do better than that, Jean-Luc" she cautioned.

"I will – when we're alone," he replied. "I…"

She took his hand in hers, squeezing it gently. "I understand. You're not used to showing your emotions, even here in front of a bunch of relative strangers. I understand," she repeated. "It's part of who you are; I wouldn't expect you to change, Jean-Luc. I don't want you to," she added.

He studied her for a long time, then drew her close and rested his head on her shoulder for a moment before raising his head to look at her. "Have I told you I love you, Beverly Crusher?" he asked.

She smiled, raised a hand to caress his cheek, then kissed him softly.

Despite their presence on the unconcealed sidewalk, he returned the kiss with far more passion than she had anticipated.

She pulled back and gave him a suspicious look. "All right: who are you, and what have you done with my captain?" she asked skeptically.

With a chuckle, Picard pulled back, moved his arm around her waist once more, and started toward the road that led out of town once again. "Your captain has returned to the _Enterprise_," he informed her. "He sent me on this mission in his place."

"Hmm," she mused. "I see. Which one of you am I going to see back on the ship?' she asked.

Picard fell silent for a time, then gave a slow nod. "That I don't know, Beverly," he replied soberly. "I think we may have to work that problem out."

She tightened her grip on his hand. "I wasn't pressing for a commitment, Jean-Luc" she explained. "Not yet. I mean, we haven't even made love!" she added with a soft laugh. "What if we end up being terrible in bed?"

"Given the turn of events this morning, I can't imagine the reality could be any worse. Dear God, I hope not!" he added fervently.

Beverly gave a soft laugh. "Think of the positive side," she said.

"The positive side?"

"If we're terrible, it's probably because neither of us has had many opportunities for a long time."

"And…?"

"We'll need to practice," she reminded him. "A lot," she added in a husky tone.

He raised brow in response. "Indeed."

"As your personal physician, I believe I can certify your health as being up to the task. However, if you need any assistance, I do have my med kit with me…"

He stopped her in mid-sentence. "I don't think _that_ will be a problem," he said.

She smiled. "I meant that I have stimulants in case I wear you out."

"Ah," he replied, relieved. "And should I wear you out?"

"I assure you, my dear captain, _that_ won't be a problem," she answered.

He laughed, and, realizing they were now safely out of LaBarre – and out of eyeshot of any of its citizens – pulled her to him, kissing her with unbridled passion.

For an instant, Beverly was too startled to respond – then found herself overwhelmed by the intensity of the kiss. Sliding her hands into his open coat, she pressed herself to him, feeling his obvious arousal. One hand slid down to the front of his trousers, caressing him, forcing a deep groan from his lips.

"Jean-Luc…"

"Beverly…"

"There are workers at the house," she reminded him.

He continued to kiss her for a moment until the words registered, then pulled away, growling in frustration. He thought for a moment, then murmured, "There's a secluded copse in the woods…"

Her eyes widened at the idea. "Jean-Luc, I'm not fifteen anymore! I'm not making love outdoors – at least not in the middle of winter – and certainly not with you! At least, not for the first time!"

"No, no," he added hastily. "Of course not."

"And in any case, I've got other plans for this afternoon," she added slyly.

"You do?" he replied hesitantly.

"I do."

"And that is…?"

"I'll show you when we get back to the house. We need a few things."

The sun was nearing the horizon when the two finally returned to the house – and dragging a fairly tall pine tree behind them.

"I know this trip home has been hard for you," she said.

He glared at her.

"I meant it has been _difficult _for you," she replied with a grin. "I thought that it might be easier if you were to create some new positive memories about home and the holidays."

"I was trying to do that this morning," he growled.

"We have this evening," she reminded him. "While you put up the tree, I'll make supper. Afterwards we can decorate the tree…"

"I don't have any decorations," he replied tersely. "Everything was destroyed in the fire."

"I know. But I saw some things while I was shopping," she informed him, then stepped in front of him, stopping him with her body. "Jean-Luc, I'm not trying to replace what you lost. But… your life is going to go on, and this place was, and will remain your home. You can, and you should, start some traditions of your own."

He frowned at her. "Why? There aren't going to be any Picards to carry them on…"

"And so you should stop living and do nothing until you're ready to die?" she retorted. "Jean-Luc, life isn't just a preparation for future generations – but to be lived by the present ones!"

He glared at her again – then looked down, shaking his head. "You're right. I know that intellectually – but here, in my heart – and especially here, in my home – I think of family, tradition, of the future… and that's all over."

She reached for him, pulling him to her, her hands moving to his face. "You are the last of the Picards, yes," she agreed. "But that doesn't mean you can't contribute to others, that your actions can't continue to affect others, to guide them, to direct them, to caution them and educate them. You're the last of your family, yes – but you're not the last of humanity – and to think otherwise… Even your ego isn't that large," she sighed.

"Ego?" he replied. "Are you suggesting I'm egotistical?" he snapped at her.

She raised a hand against the remark, neither confirming nor denying it as she walked toward the front entrance of the house.

"I'm going to start supper," she informed him. "You can set up the tree."

"I don't have a stand for it," he reminded her.

"Ordered. It should have been delivered with the bread and cheeses," she added as she entered the door.

He glared once again, hating her for her organization and attention to detail – and loving her for it as well.

Leaving the tree in the doorway, he followed her into the kitchen, pulled her into his arms and began to kiss her soundly.

She melted against him, moaning softly at his touch, opening her mouth to his questing tongue, then pulling at his coat and her own, quickly noting that the kitchen table was both completely cleared of dishes and plates and close at hand.

He must have had the same thought, for he began to push her toward the table.

It wasn't where she wanted to make love with Jean-Luc for the first time, Beverly thought, but then again…

"Monsieur Picard," a voice interrupted.

"Damn it!" Picard muttered. "God damn it!" Releasing Beverly, he held her until she was steady on her feet; hastily straightening his clothes, he turned to face the foreman.

As the two spoke, Beverly took a moment to straighten her own clothes and regain her bearings. Damn, that man can kiss, she thought. If he's half that good in bed…

Smiling, happily anticipating the post-dinner events to come, she searched the cabinets for a Dutch oven, then found the supplies that the ship's quartermaster had sent down for them. As requested, a half-dozen prepared dishes were held in stasis bags, needing nothing more than a reheating to be made palatable. Finding the bouef bourgignon, she placed it in the oven, set it on the stove, and began to set the table.

Finished, she entered the living room – then stopped.

Jean-Luc and the foreman were steadying the Christmas tree in the stand she had purchased – but from her point of view, the tree didn't seem terribly secure. As she watched, the two began to make adjustments to the controller, and slowly the tree straightened and seemed to grow steadier in the tree stand.

"It's lovely," she said softly.

The two men stopped their discussion to look at her and smile.

"As are you," Picard offered then turned back to the workman. They made a few more minor adjustments, then, deeming the positioning to be just right, shook hands. As Picard escorted the senior worker to the door, the man nodded politely to Beverly, murmured something to Picard, then left the house.

The starship captain watched the man through the window for a moment, then stepped to the door and locked it.

"We're not getting interrupted again," he said firmly – then turned to Beverly and strode toward her purposefully.

Taking her in his arms, he began to kiss her again, only to feel her pull away.

"Dinner," she explained.

"I'm not hungry," he growled.

"I'm turning it off so it doesn't burn," she explained.

He smiled – then frowned. "Is that your stomach growling?" he asked.

"It can wait," she said.

It would have to, he thought – then sighed. "I know you, Beverly; either we eat first – or I'm going to hear your stomach rumbling for the next few hours."

"Hours?" she repeated with a grin.

"At least," he insisted, leering back at her.

"Then we'll both need our energy," she said. "Why don't you open some wine and I'll get dinner?"

"The wine will need some time to breathe," he replied.

"Then open it, and we can decorate the tree while it's breathing," she suggested.

As he left to find and appropriate wine and open it, Beverly found the box of ornaments she had purchased. Taking out the first clear globe, she ran a ribbon through the top of the globe, tied a bow in it, then hung it on an outstretched limb.

The tree promptly began to lean toward her. Grabbing the trunk, she straightened it, then yelped, "Help!"

Hurrying back into the room, Picard saw her predicament; retrieving the remote control, he readjusted the settings – then pressed the locking control down firmly. "My apologies; the lock wasn't set correctly. Are you all right?"

"Fine," she assured him.

"Well, let's get these ornaments on the tree so we can eat," he said. Seeing the open box, he looked over the decorations, and the expression on his face softened. "I used to have an ornament very similar to this one," he said, pulling out a large gold and red globe. "Maman gave it to me when I was eight. Robert got a similar one as well. It must have suited his tastes, because he didn't try to take mine away or break it. Whenever he thought he had been slighted by me – when he thought I had gotten a nicer gift, or a larger piece of a sandwich, for example – he would make my life miserable. It's taken me a long time to understand that he was acting out on his own insecurities rather than acting as he did because he hated me."

"You thought he hated you?" Beverly said, surprised.

He nodded, then added softly, "I'm fairly sure my father did. At least… I know he didn't love me."

Beverly stepped toward him, pulling the stricken man into her arms and gently stroking his back. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I wish I could tell you why he was the way he was – but sometimes there are no explanations for these things. All I can say is… He was so very wrong, Jean-Luc. Not loving you as he should have hurt you – but it cost him as well. Never to have had the chance to truly know who you were – or to come to know what a fine man you became. If he had, he would have been so proud of you," she told him.

She held him for a time, then heard a softly muffled voice speaking into her shoulder.

"Beverly?"

"Yes?" she answered, pulling back.

"I don't think the stew should smell like that," he replied.

He eyes widened in horror. "My God, our dinner!" She pulled away and ran toward the kitchen, expecting to find another disaster in a trip already filled with them – but opening the Dutch oven revealed nothing more horrific than one slightly scorched carrot.

Peering over her shoulder at the remaining undamaged meal, Picard drew a deep

breath and sighed. "Now that brings back memories."

"Burned carrots?"

Securing two flat bottomed bowls from the pantry and handing them to her, he replied, "I've told you about my Aunt Adele," he said.

"The one with the hot milk recipe?"

"The very one. Her husband was a dreadful cook, but every now and then, Aunt Adele would leave him in charge of watching over a pot of something – stew or soup – while she went to the store or out into the garden. The problem was that Uncle Gaston was as brilliant in everything else as he was deficient in his cooking skills. Worse, he treated everyone like an equal – and therefore, he would have no qualms with discussing literature or politics or philosophy or religion with anyone – and listening intently to their thoughts and opinions – regardless of their age or education.

"One Sunday, Aunt Adele left him to watch over a pot of bouef bourgignon – with carrots," he added hastily, "only to become engaged in a pointed and engaging talk with his ten year old nephew."

"You," Beverly concluded.

Jean-Luc bowed his head in acknowledgement. "We had barely finished our talk about Descartes when I began to smell that very familiar scent – but Uncle Gaston declined to get up until we had completed or conversation about Camus.

"By then the outside of the carrots had carmelized so completely that when Uncle Gaston tried to take them out of the pan – lest Aunt Adele realize what he had, or rather hadn't done – the inside of the carrots slipped out, leaving these crisp carrots 'skins' in the pan.

"In the end, of course, he had to admit to what he had done – but the stew was undoubtedly the best I had ever eaten. Whether that was from Uncle Gaston's carrots, or from the hours he and I spent have an intelligent discussion as two adults, I still don't know," he concluded with a smile.

"I wish I could have met this uncle of yours," Beverly said.

"I think you would have liked him," Jean-Luc agreed, "At least until the first time you two disagreed. Then…"

"Then I would have hated him?"

Picard smiled. "Then he would have fallen in love with you as deeply as I have. He loved nothing more than intelligent people who had the strength and courage of their opinions."

Beverly looked into his eyes, hers silently pleasing with him to move closer, to wrap her in his arms, to kiss her – and answering that silent call, he stepped toward her.

She braced her hands against the stove… and yelped as one hand moved too close to the open flame.

"Damn!" she swore, pushing past Picard and hurrying to the sink; turning on the water, she quickly pushed her hand under the cold stream. "Damn it," she muttered, then looked to Picard.

"Can you get my med kit?" she asked.

"Are you all right?" he replied.

"I will be. It's just a minor burn," Beverly explained.

Picard hurried from the room, returning a few minutes later with the kit, then watched as Beverly quickly repaired the damage. "I swear, Jean-Luc, it's as though the fates don't want us to get together," she grumbled.

"I don't believe in fate," he replied. "But I'd rather believe in fate than think that one of us is subconsciously trying to avoid getting involved," he countered.

"You think I burned my hand on purpose?" she said accusingly.

He stared at her, appalled that he had misspoken so badly. "I meant nothing of the sort, Beverly! I meant… I meant," he started again, forcing himself to calm down, "I meant that I think we're both a little nervous about the situation – and we're overreacting. I don't usually jump on the bed to join my lovers," he informed her. "For that matter, I don't usually _have_ lovers," he added with a sigh.

"And I'm not usually so clumsy in the kitchen," she offered.

Smiling, relieved that his apology had been tacitly accepted, he moved closer – but the kiss this time was far from passionate. Instead, it was chaste, tender and lovingly sincere.

"Let's have that stew," he said pulling away. "The wine should be ready – and I think I saw a baguette on the counter."

A few minutes later, the two sat on the living room floor before the heavy oak coffee table which held their dinner plates and wine glasses. Before them roared a newly lit fire, while the partially decorated tree stood at one side, patiently awaiting their continued ministrations. Their conversation was light and laugh-filled, discussing the villagers and their response to Picard's temporary return, their aversion to attending Will Riker's New Year's party – they covered any topic and every topic – except the one that was at the center of their minds.

After a time, they rose, clearing the dishes then returning to their earlier task of decorating the tree. With so few ornaments, they took their time placing them in just the right locations, stepping back to check them every so often, moving them from one branch to another until they were in just the right spot.

Which was _not_, Beverly decided, where the blue and white one was. A little higher – maybe a branch or two up…

She raised her hands, stretching out on tiptoe, only to find herself a fraction of an inch too short. As she was about to abandon the plan, she felt a hand, warm and large wrap around hers, gently take the globe away and place it on the high branch.

"Perfect," she said, admiring the tree.

"Indeed," Picard agreed – but it wasn't the tree he was appreciating. He raised her hand to his lips, kissing it gently, then pulling her toward him.

She moved at his silent command, pressing herself against him, raising her eyes slightly until they met his – then kissed him.

As his lips pressed to hers, she felt a warm moving from her lips to the center of her being; she gave a low groan and pressed herself more closely to him, savoring his warmth, the scent of his body, the hardness of his muscles.

She groaned again as his hands ran over her form, moving from waist to hip, easing around to caress the curve of her buttocks, then moving up to her back, pulling her closer, then trailing to the small of her back.

Easing them beneath the bottom of her sweater, he eased it up, sliding it over her head – and was delighted to discover that she was wearing nothing but a thin camisole beneath, and the silky fabric did nothing to conceal the rounded globes of her breasts or the sharp points the betrayed her excitation.

He slipped his hands beneath that second layer, quickly sliding it from her body, letting it slide to the ground beside her sweater; he pulled away to admire the sight, then reached out to caress the bare flesh – and then to draw one tip into his mouth.

Even as she cried out softly in pleasure, her hands were reaching for the front of his trousers, opening them, her hands reaching within to seek out the source of his need; finding it, she drew her fingers along its length in feathery touches, earning a moan of pleasure from him in return.

"Beverly…" he gasped in a deep voice, husky with need.

"Yes…"

"I…"

"Yes…"

"May I…?"

She pulled away – but only far enough to face him. "Which part of 'yes' don't you understand?" she teased.

He stared at her, need and hunger blunting his comprehension.

Smiling, she took his hand, guiding him toward the floor.

"The bedroom…" he began.

"Later…" she insisted.

They quickly finished stripping their clothes off, then pushed the coffee table to one side, settling on the thick rug that was spread out on the floor before them, the fire casting its warmth and its glow on their bodies as they continued their mutual explorations.

For as long as they could bear it, they teased one another, tasted one another, touched and caressed, stroked and fondled until their need grew too much; even as he questioned her with one look, she answered with another, rolling from his side to her back, letting him find his place between her legs.

She gasped at his presence; it had been so long – too long – since she had been with any man – and for so long, it had been _this_ man who had filled her fantasies.

Slowly he changed the pace of his motions, reading her body, listening to every cry and moan and following their wordless demands so that he could please her in every way, pulling her even more close to him, seek the very depths of her body.

Beverly gave a soft cry of pleasure, opening her half-lidded eyes to stare at her lover's face…

And gave a shriek of horror.

She pushed at Picard, shoving him off of her body, then rolled fast and hard to the other side…

And the room went dark.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Daylight played the room, dancing on the frost tinged window to tease Beverly with delicate strands.

Tired, unamused by the annoyance, she turned away – and gave a brief cry as a dull pain struck the side of her head.

"Beverly!"

Picard's voice, hoarse with worry, startled her into wakefulness – and a second cry of pain.

"My head," she managed, then looked at him, confused. "What happened, Jean-Luc?"

Moving from the chair where he had been dozing, he moved to the bed where she lay, sitting beside her, and smiled with infinite tenderness and worry. "You have a concussion," he informed her.

"What? How?" she replied, perplexed, trying to recall what had happened – and remembering little beyond their coupling on the living room floor.

An unfamiliar, albeit welcome soreness at the junction of her legs confirmed that part of their evening – but the pain in her head was beyond the reach of her memory.

He smiled again. "Perhaps it _was_ the fates," he teased gently. "Apparently the stabilizer control for the Christmas tree was defective; in the middle of our… liaison… the control failed and the tree began to fall. You must have seen it, because you pushed me out of the way…"

"And it fell on me?" she asked.

Picard shook his head. "Not quite. You rolled out of the way – and hit your head on the leg of the coffee table. When I couldn't wake you up, I called Dr. Brunel; he came over, examined you and said it was a minor concussion."

"Oh," she said, starting to push herself upright, only to have him gently push her back onto the bed.

"That's the bad news," he informed her. "The good news is that Dr. Brunel said that you should stay in bed today."

"Alone?" she asked with a smile.

"Strangely enough, he didn't specify that," Jean-Luc replied, suspecting that the doctor had figured out the nature of their escapade the previous night - which couldn't have been too difficult, he added, given that he had only had time to hastily don a robe and place a blanket over Beverly before the physician's arrival.

Beverly smiled. "In that case…" She pulled back the bed covers, then patted the mattress beside her.

He quickly shed the robe he was still wearing and clambered in beside her, pulling the thick down comforter over them both, turning to face Beverly and smiling. "Now, where were we?" he asked.

They met in a gentle kiss, then Beverly answered, "Actually I was about to ask you the same thing. This isn't your room," she said.

"This is the master bedroom. It was Maman and Father's room – then Robert and Marie's. This section of the house was destroyed in the fire - although my old room was spared. I had this room rebuilt, along with the two adjacent rooms. I hadn't intended to use it, of course – but after talking with the lawyers, I've come to realize that I am the head of the household now – and this should be my room," he said. "While you were out shopping, I arranged to have some furniture delivered - though I had hoped to break in this bed in a somewhat different manner," he added with a mischievous grin.

It was a rather grand bed, Beverly thought as she admired the old-fashioned four-poster; very traditional and very regal, it did befit his revised status in this house she thought as the head of the ancient family estate.

"Droit de seigneur?" she murmured coyly.

He raised a brow in delighted bemusement replying huskily, "It would be my right... as lord of the manner."

She looked at him with hooded eyes. "And what would my lord's pleasure be?"

He lay back, supporting himself on one arm, while his other hand moved to the satin bow at the top of the flannel nightgown he had found in one of the bags she had transported down. With calculated sloth, he pulled the loose end, the bow falling open, revealing a thin line of cream colored flesh beneath.

He lowered his lips to her skin, just as a faint ringing sound filled the room.

"God damn it!" he swore angrily as he pulled away; jerking the blankets back, he strode to the window, pushed them open and leaned out.

Whoever it was, Beverly thought as she watched from the bed, it wasn't someone with whom the man wanted to be upset, because she could see him instantly trying to quietly his outrage. She caught a few words of the conversation, but between the regional dialect and the fact that the other participant was standing outside, she could only guess at the reason for this latest disruption in their decades-long foreplay.

Leaning back from the window, Picard closed the panels, sighed, then turned to his almost-lover. "Dr. Brunel. Apparently he's been trying to contact me all morning, and when I didn't answer, he got worried. He'd like to check up on you," he added.

"As his patient, I'd like to tell him I'm fine; as a fellow physician, I respect his attention to his patient's care," she replied. Picking up the ends of the satin ribbon, she primly retied the bow, tried to fluff her disheveled hair, then hissed as she touched the still sore place on her head. "Invite him in," she said at last - then grinned. "After you put on some clothes," she added, looking at him pointedly.

He glanced down, then realized the source of her bemusement. Grabbing the robe, he wrapped it around himself then left the room.

A few moments later, a man, roughly the same age as Jean-Luc, glanced around the edge of the door, then entered at Beverly's gesture.

"Good morning," he said, his Federation Standard wonderfully accented by his native language. "I'm Dr. Francois Brunel."

"Dr. Beverly Crusher," she replied, politely extending her hand to him.

He bowed over it, then straightened. "How are you feeling this morning? Did Jean-Luc tell you what happened?"

Beverly nodded, wincing slightly at the movement.

"Your head? It is sore, still?" he asked.

She nodded - cautiously.

"Any nausea? Headache?" he pressed.

"No."

"Double vision? Blurred eye sight?"

"No," she repeated.

He nodded approvingly, then withdrew a scanner from the medical bag he carried. "If I may?" he asked.

Beverly nodded again.

He passed the scanner over her head, making slight approving noises, then moved it over her chest and frowned. "Your blood pressure and your heart rate; they are elevated."

I'm not surprised, Beverly thought to herself, glancing behind the doctor to where Picard stood, watching worriedly.

Dr. Brunel must have seen the motion, for he looked back as well - then back at Beverly - then remembering how he had found the woman a few hours before, gave a chuckle. "Yes. Of course. I am sorry I have interrupted you, but I wanted to make sure that you weren't more seriously hurt."

"I understand," she replied. "Thank you for being so thorough."

"Ah you thank me - but I think Jean-Luc, he does not. So I will leave you both now - but you will call me should there be any changes, yes?"

"Of course," Beverly agreed.

He gave her a suspicious look. "We doctors, we are terrible patients," he said, then looked to Picard. "Jean-Luc, you will call me if she becomes excessively sleepy, begins to vomit, or complains of any problems with her vision or hearing," he informed the man.

"I will," Picard agreed.

"Very well. Then I will leave you with a word of caution," Brunel concluded, switching back to his native French once more.

Picard raised a brow, worried that there might be something more serious about Beverly's condition that he did not want the woman to know.

Beverly listened without understanding as Brunel spoke to Picard - then watched as Picard blanched - then blushed bright red.

Laughing, Brunel patted the man on the arm, tucked the scanner back into the bag, bowed to Beverly, then let himself out of the room.

Picard followed him, then returned to the room a few minutes later and sat heavily on the side of the bed. "Merde," he muttered.

She reached for his hand, taking it consolingly. "It's all right, Jean-Luc; he's gone now - and we're alone."

He tightened his hand around hers, smiled - and shook his head. "Not for long. Beverly, I am _so_ sorry."

"Sorry? None of this was your fault..."

"Not this - but for what's about to happen," he said.

"Why? What's about to happen?" she asked worriedly.

"We're about to be descended on. It seems that my return to LaBarre to meet with Marie's lawyer, coupled with your joining me on this trip, has sparked more than a little gossip. I had expected as much; what I hadn't considered was what would happen when I ordered a bed to be delivered - and insisted it be there before we returned to the house yesterday... because the other one had broken," he informed her, humiliated and embarrassed.

She stared at him - then burst into laughter. "Oh, my dear Jean-Luc! I can only imagine what they thought..."

"They'd be right, of course," he reminded her, "but it wasn't something I wanted advertised! Now everyone thinks I'm moving back here - with a wife," he added in a mortified whisper.

Beverly flinched at the word, then forced herself to relax. "No marriage until after the honeymoon," she informed him. "What if you're no good in bed?" she added.

"No good...?" he said, barely managing to choke out the words, then drew a deep breath and affixed her with a steely gaze from his hazel eyes. "I too, will want confirmation of your abilities and talents," he informed her. "I do have certain... standards."

Beverly laughed again. "In that case, perhaps we should begin this... assessment process," she said, pulling him toward her.

Instead of moving to her, however, he pulled back - and pulled her with him. "I would love to - but it is Christmas Eve - and tradition has it that the day is spent visiting friends and neighbors. We should just have time to get dressed," he informed her.

For a moment, she was tempted to suggest a shared shower - but given their luck of the last few days, she had no doubt it would end frustratingly and prematurely with a broken arm or leg - or worse. "You first," she said.

Given Picard's trepidation about the onslaught of visitors, Beverly was delighted to discover that Jean-Luc's neighbors were friendly and open to the return of their famous townsman - and to her as well. Having heard of her injury - though the rumor mill had determined it was from an as-yet unrevealed pregnancy - she was promptly relegated to the living room couch, where the women gathered to chat with her, seeking out every morsel of knowledge they could about the only woman Jean-Luc had ever brought home - and in trade providing her with ample information about the man.

Picard, situated in the kitchen with the men, spent the day opening and pouring wine, politely talking about the future of the vineyard, his own plans - and trying to keep the conversation from straying onto the two topics he most wanted to avoid: his future - and Beverly.

At long last, the sun's rays began to lengthen, and the visitors departed as they headed home to attend to their own holiday celebrations - and left the two alone at long last.

Exhausted, Picard poured two glasses of wine, handed them to Beverly, lifted her legs so he could sit on the couch, then placed them atop his lap. Taking his glass back, he turned to her, touched the rim to hers, then took a deep swallow.

"Thank you," he said.

"Your neighbors are very nice people," she countered.

"They are," he agreed. "Sometimes I forget that. Sometimes I forget that this house, this land – that for all the sorrow and disappointment I felt here, there was also great joy and happiness. But I meant," he said, looking at her, "'thank you - for everything. As badly as things have gone, I have to admit that this has been the best Christmas I ever spent in this house. Certainly it has been the most memorable," he leaned added with a smile, then toward her, kissed her softly and sat back.

She smiled back. "Just wait until tomorrow morning," she said.

He gave her a puzzled look.

"When you get to unwrap your present," she said.

"My present?"

She nodded. "You weren't the only one who did a little 'extra' shopping in town yesterday," she informed him. "Did you know LaBarre has a lovely lingerie store? Little whisps of goassamer that don't conceal a thing."

"Umm... Perhaps," he said, carefully lifting her legs from his lap and standing, "we should finish this conversation... upstairs."

"Perhaps we should," she agreed. Rising, she wrapped her arm around his waist, feeling him place his arms around her shoulders and let him guide her toward the stairs. "I was thinking..." she said as they walked.

"About...?"

"Maybe everything that happened wasn't just bad luck, or our subconscious minds directing us, or just old fashioned nerves? What if the fates – or whatever there might be - were keeping us apart for a reason? What if they were protecting us from one another because… we are terrible in bed?" she asked with a grin.

He stopped, looked at her, then kissed her forehead. "It's not just about sex, Beverly. If that were all that mattered, you and I wouldn't be here today. This is more; it always has been. I love you. I always have. I always will." He pulled her closer, pressing his lips to hers.

Feeling the same liquid warmth wash over her, she gave a faint moan of pleasure, then pulled back. "I love you, too," she said.

They met for a second, far longer, far deeper kiss - and for a brief moment, Beverly gave serious consideration to the possibility that middle of the front hall might be a fine place to finally consummate their relationship.

She was about to broach the idea, when he broke away, guiding her toward the stairs once again.

"In any case, I rather hope we're _not_ all that and a bag of chips the first time around," Picard continued. "Providing we ever get that far," he added with a chuckle.

"Excuse me? You hope we're _not_?" she replied, amazed.

"Of course not! Where's the fun in that?" he teased - then grew sober. "Not that I don't enjoy good sex - but the idea of spending days, weeks - years - discovering what makes you happy, while you do the same for me, always searching for something more that we can give to each other..."

She looked at him, taken aback. "Years?"

"Is that all right with you? I mean..." He hesitated, suddenly uncertain. "Did you have other plans?"

She stopped and gave him a forthright look. "What are you asking me, Jean-Luc?"

He looked back at her, staring into the sapphire eyes he had loved for so long. "I'm asking you ... for everything. A day, a year... a life," he added. "As my friend, my love, my wife…whatever you would deign to grant me, I would cherish."

She studied him, stunned beyond words... then decided there would be time enough for words - indeed, an entire lifetime - but later.

For now, she simply took his hand and led him up the stairs to their bed.


End file.
